What Isabella Desires (21 page)

“Oh. I must have mistaken the date,” Isabella said. “I’m sure the note must have said Monday. Right, Bertie?” She didn’t want to get the faceless Simone in trouble for something she didn’t do.

“Yes, my lady, it must have been the other appointment for Wednesday.” Bertie floundered, poor dear.

The woman at the door peered behind Isabella and Bertie. “Oh, that happens to me too on occasion. Is it just you that has come to visit?”

Isabella smiled. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Not usually, no. But it’s Wednesday,” she said, mostly to herself.

Isabella had no idea why Wednesday was important and different from other weekdays, but she could make outside inquiries into the matter. She wasn’t going to force her way in and make the woman uncomfortable just because the note had said Wednesdays at one. Perhaps she’d be able to wheedle the information out another way.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “Perhaps you might schedule me in for another day? My name is Lady Willoughby.”

The woman stared at her for a moment before breaking into a relieved smile. “Oh! Well come right in then.”

She motioned her inside, and Isabella bemusedly followed.

“It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Mrs. Horncastle. I run the home. I’ve heard so many lovely things about you.”

Isabella automatically nodded, baffled. She saw Bertie shrug helplessly in response. “Why thank you.”

“Do you want the full tour? Or do you wish to attend the reading? No one is allowed, you know,” she said conspiratorially.

She went from baffled to completely confused, but said, “Of course.”

“It’s so good to see Mr. Stewart having a bit more fun. Such a lonely man.” Her smile dimmed a bit.

Mr. Stewart? Marcus’s family name was Stewart, but no one would ever call him Mr. Stewart.

“Does Mr. Stewart come by often?”

“Only on Wednesdays. It’s the reason for restricting others.”

“And it’s acceptable that I be here?”

Had Marcus said something? Hope beat in her chest.

“Oh, yes. The Duke of Marston made a sizable contribution last week when he stopped by. He said that Mr. Stewart had told him you were also to be allowed inside any time you pleased.”

Isabella smiled weakly, the hope fading. Something—no, multiple somethings—didn’t fit. If Stephen had used his title, Marcus would be using his. No, she didn’t think Marcus was aware at all of what Stephen was doing.

“Mr. Stewart is here?”

“Yes, he is in the reading room. Would you like to see him?”

“No,” she said, more strongly than she’d intended. Mrs. Horncastle’s eyes widened. She took a deep breath. “No, please, I don’t wish to disturb him. Perhaps, if we could just oversee the room?”

“Oh, yes, a tour. How neglectful of me. Please, right this way.”

Isabella was led into a large room filled with neatly stacked toys, some of which she had never seen before—strange blocks and tops. The neatness of the scene made her blink. Everything was in its place, much like how Marcus always had his things. A sort of spartan feel in an otherwise obviously lived-in room. She reached down and picked up a stuffed bear from a bin. When faced with so many toys, some things required no explanation.

“How many children do you house?”

“Twenty. Poor dears. And another twenty adults. We used to have more, but Mr. Stewart has been finding them work, and while some of them return here to live when not at work, others have found homes. The hope shines from them. All of them. It’s almost too much for my poor heart.” She wiped at her eyes.

Isabella tried to understand what she was being told, but it wasn’t making any sense. “What type of work?”

“Two women on stage—one for the opera, another for a small theater. Four men and women in factories, separating items. A dozen in the fields—they don’t live here anymore, of course. One man to help with a lighthouse, of all things. Says he can hear the ships coming! Why, he even got one man into a chamber group that is playing in society! Exceptional violinist, but no one would hire him.” She tsked.

“Why wouldn’t anyone hire him?”

Mrs. Horncastle looked at her strangely. “Because he is blind, of course.”

Isabella looked around the room and swallowed heavily. Of course. Oh, God. Oh, God, of course.

“You keep the rooms so clean, and with so many children around,” she whispered.

“Yes, wouldn’t want the dears to trip on anything. They are excellent at navigating and finding what they need, but if something is out of place…well, no one wants an accident. So they always make sure to put things back. Everything has its place,” she said happily.

Everything had its place. His clothes, his furniture, the lack of rugs in his room, the way the rugs were nearly bolted in place through the rest of the house. The spartan setting, so much less to run into.

She clutched the bear to her and lowered her head.

“My lady?”

She shook her head. She wanted to curl up in the corner and sob, but she couldn’t. Not here.

She took a breath and lifted her head. “Is it possible to observe them?”

“Oh, yes. There’s a small window at the back. All the children will be in there. They love story time.”

The woman motioned to the door, but Isabella’s feet wouldn’t move. She squeezed the bear, took a deep breath and placed it in the bin, then put one foot in front of the other.

The window was tiny, but she could see through it, could hear from an open door around the corner Marcus reading a story. All the children sat in rapt attention, leaning forward as he read about a monk and a parakeet.

“…and the parakeet flew high into the trees…”

His voice, deep and like caramel, melted over her. He turned the page, continuing the tale, though she no longer heard the words.

There were adults seated in the room as well, sitting on chairs near the edges or holding children on their laps. It was such an odd scene that for a second she doubted what she was seeing. But no, it was Marcus, most definitely, and he was reading to a room full of children and even some adults.

Children who obviously adored him. Children that he said he never wanted.

She pulled away and pressed against the wall, shutting her eyes as she tried to make sense of it.

“My lady?” The whisper came from her right.

She opened her eyes and looked at Bertie, then at Mrs. Horncastle, who was motioning her into another room, away from the reading.

“What do you think of the house?” Mrs. Horncastle asked when they were out of earshot.

“It’s wonderful. We will, of course, be supporting the Mary Chatwood Home.”

“Oh, splendid.” She clapped her hands together. “Would you like to wait for Mr. Stewart?”

“No, no. Let me give you my card. And please, don’t tell Mr. Stewart I was here.”

She looked perplexed. “Whyever not?”

“We are planning a surprise for him. I assume the Duke of Marston told you to keep his visit a secret as well.”

Stephen obviously had said nothing to Marcus.

“He did. It’s most vexing, though. Mr. Stewart has paid for nearly everything in the home. I don’t feel right keeping anything from him. But you say there will be a surprise and you will tell him soon?”

“Yes.”

“Good. He has taken care of us these past fifteen years. Since his parents passed, poor dear.”

“Oh?”

She didn’t want to pry, but there was little on earth that could stop her at the moment from trying to find out more.

“Yes,” Mrs. Horncastle said. “But I’ll be saying no more.” The woman’s eyes sharpened with loyalty.

“Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Horncastle.” She pressed one of her cards into the woman’s hand. “I will be in touch soon.”

She turned from the woman and exited the room and home as fast as dignity allowed.

She had many stops to make.

She was two steps closer. Two steps in slippered shoes. She just didn’t have all the facts to make the last step, which required Wellington boots.

She’d have to confront Marcus.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh, rich jasmine mixed with the last breaths from the dying lilacs. She was looking forward to the confrontation with a sort of savage intensity.

She strolled nonchalantly around the stone terrace, the uneven pavers nudging the soles of her slippers. He would be here tonight. Everyone left in town was expected to attend the Clarence rout, and Stephen had assured her that Marcus would attend. She hadn’t seen him since returning to London. They had somehow managed to attend separate functions, no doubt Marcus’s doing, knowing which ones she would attend based partially on Calliope and partially on past knowledge.

But he wouldn’t escape tonight.

She had even considered wearing her red dress. Her battle dress. But she’d settled on the flowing navy gown designed by Madame Giselle, thinking that perhaps she should try some less obvious tactics before declaring war. It was a strategic move.

Isabella continued her stroll and admired a clematis vine that the Clarences’ gardener had trained to hang just so. It required patience to tweak and arrange the creeping vines. She might be grumpy in the mornings and a sore loser at chess, but if there was one emotion she understood, it was patience for a worthy quest.

Mrs. Waterbee stared down her nose and crinkled it as if a foul odor passed beneath as she strolled by. She had experienced a similar reaction from a few others, but Isabella had come not to care as she might once have. There was nothing wrong with what she had done. She loved Marcus, and if she wasn’t deluding herself, the sentiment was quite possibly returned.

So let them sniff. She would fight for him, beat down his barriers with all the patience she could muster, and if she won, then wild boars wouldn’t drag her happiness down.

If she lost, then at least she would lose fighting to the end.

She smiled pleasantly at Mrs. Waterbee and continued her circuit.

“Lady Willoughby.”

Fenton Ellerby appeared next to her, a rush of too much masculine perfume overtaking her. He took her gloved hand in his, and she held back a weary sigh while maintaining a smile.

“Good evening, Mr. Ellerby. How have you been?”

He leaned in close. “Not as well as I would have been in your company.” He gripped her fingers and she had to tug them back.

She smoothed the silk of her gloves and took a discreet step backward. “How kind of you to say.”

He stepped forward, his too charming smile hitching the edges of his mouth. “Not as kind as you are to grace us with your brilliant presence once more.”

“Such charm, Mr. Ellerby.”

She smiled and began walking again, forcing him to walk alongside her.

“I have noticed that you seem out of spirits lately, Lady Willoughby.”

“I think it comes with the end of the season, does it not, Mr. Ellerby? The feeling of awaying to the countryside, while pleasant, stokes the melancholy the end of the season brings.”

A few people were openly staring at them, questioning looks plastered on their faces, where just two weeks ago naught would have been thought out of place.

“I know exactly what you mean. Which is why it is always pleasant to be near others. To let the melancholy drown in the happiness between two people.”

Did women really fall for this drivel?

“Mmmm…”

He touched her bare elbow. “Walk with me in the gardens?”

She stepped away, and his hand dropped. “I think not.”

He smiled charmingly. “There are many people outside. Just a quick stroll to relieve the heat before I must go inside and claim a few dances of others.”

A few of the ladies were gazing adoringly in his direction. And indeed there was a knot of people in the gardens, much of the ballroom having spilled outside during the orchestral break. While there was no way she would disappear with him into the extensive gardens, a brief stroll on the lawn between sets would be good for her feet. The grass would make a pleasant change from the uneven stones, and they would still be in total view of the guests—nothing noteworthy to report beyond Ellerby’s attention to her.

She wasn’t naive enough to get herself into a situation with Ellerby. And any ancillary gossip about them would die quickly with nothing to support it. Ellerby was the only one willing to speak with her outside the stuffy ballroom—the others unsure of what the relationship was with Marcus and how to react. She could use some conversation, however bad, while waiting.

“Not in the gardens, Mr. Ellerby. But here on the lawn we can continue our conversation.”

His smile grew. “It will be my pleasure, Lady Willoughby.”

Marcus stalked into Ainsworth’s cluttered study, hand gripped tightly around his walking stick. He needed to straighten out a few things with the man before he dropped by the Clarence rout. Isabella would be there, and he needed all his defenses in play.

It would be the first time they’d see each other since she left the manor—though not the first time he had seen her. He had discreetly followed her to town, secretly staying at the same inn instead of pushing forth to London. Once in town, he had checked on her every couple of days, but never let her see him. She had been drawn and pale at the beginning, and he could have drowned in his own guilt.

But something had happened last week between his checks. Her head was once again held high, her eyes focused, and her step determined. He could practically smell her determination. He had no idea what had happened, and couldn’t use his resources to find out. Calliope, Stephen, and the others had all been tight-lipped—and more than a little irritated with him, for good reason.

Still, he stood by his decision. It was the right one. Not only for her, but for him as well. At least this way he could self-destruct without witnesses, without pity. Without seeing that look in her eyes, the love turned to resentment.

“Evening, Roth,” Ainsworth said grumpily.

“Ainsworth.”

He dropped into the low-backed mahogany chair on the other side of the large walnut desk and watched Ainsworth nervously fiddle with his quill.

“You called this meeting, Roth. Get on with it.”

He set his walking stick against the chair and folded his hands. “You sent a note to my men warning them about an attack today. An attack that we were able to foil. Why?”

Ainsworth gave a humorless chuckle. “Should’ve known you’d discover I sent the note.”

“Why did you?”

He clutched the nib of the quill. “Because I don’t hold with the way things are going.”

“But you held with the way things were?”

The nib broke. “Listen, I didn’t want to be involved in this mess in the first place, but I got myself into a spot of trouble. It’s always finding me.” He tossed the quill to the side.

Marcus thought that perhaps he had that statement in the reverse order, but said nothing.

“I was told they were going to remove you. Maybe injure you a bit, but nothing permanent. Just enough to take you out of the House proceedings.”

If only they’d waited, they wouldn’t have had to do a thing. Bitterness crept into his thoughts.

“I didn’t want to do it, Roth, you have to believe me. And then things went bad.” Ainsworth swallowed. “Out of control. I panicked and started making up information instead.”

Marcus held his temper. “What type of information?”

“Things I heard, schedules of people around town and in the Houses. I have the accounts information. I have access. I’m not as dumb as people think I am.”

Marcus withheld comment on the last point. “I see. And why did you do it?”

Ainsworth looked pained. “He made me do it. Has information I don’t want to get out. Said what we were doing was going to shift power back where it was needed.”

“Who?”

Ainsworth looked down at the papers littering his desk. “Ellerby.”

“Charles Ellerby doesn’t have enough—”

He shook his head. “Not Charles, Fenton.”

Fenton Ellerby?

Ellerby had spent two terms in the Commons before being voted out. He recalled the man’s outrage, his bitter feelings about how the Lords was a full-term position, but the Commons…

The Commons weren’t restricted to birth.

Cold current ran through him. Suddenly, all sorts of things clicked into place. Why Fenton Ellerby always looked vaguely familiar. Why he didn’t get involved in politics anymore. Why he worked the ladies the way he did.

And what power he might be trying to bring back.

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Fenton Ellerby was—is—blackmailing you.”

Ainsworth grimaced, but nodded. “I needed that subsidy to pay off the greedy bastard.”

His suspicion over Ainsworth’s subsidy had been correct after all. “You could have him out of the country at the very least for such an action.”

“And expose what Ellerby knows? I think not,” Ainsworth said, tightly.

“I don’t know what it is that Ellerby knows, but you chose your allies poorly.”

“I know. I realized it when I saw that carriage nearly hit Lady Willoughby. She’s friends with my wife, for God’s sake. She’s a member of the ton. That’s when I stopped giving information. I had no idea why he wanted her schedule at first, but it was easy enough to obtain, her being friends with my wife and all.”

Marcus’s heart stopped. He pushed back the chair and staggered upright, gripping his walking stick for support.

“What the devil is with you, Roth?”

Marcus barely paid him attention as he quickly stepped to the door. “We’ll talk later, Ainsworth. As much as I’d like to ram this stick down your gullet, you did the right thing in the end. I’ll help you if I can.”

Ainsworth nodded tightly, but Marcus didn’t spare him another thought as he raced out the door to his carriage.

Isabella was in grave danger.

And he was the one responsible yet again. He had told her she was safe.